The Life of Crookshanks
by Talia Fisher
Summary: My account of Crookshank's life before he was bought by Hermione...
1. The Life of Crookshanks - Part 1

Author's note: This is about the life Crookshanks led, before he was bought by Hermione. To avoid confusion, remember that he was not called Crookshanks all his life. 

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The Life of Crookshanks

The Robinson family chose him, the only ginger kitten from a litter of six. They named him Fluffy, at the children's request, a name that the cat despised. It was so undignified living with the Robinson's. He knew that if he saw six-year-old Katy donning her dressing-up Nurse's outfit, then he was due to receive a bath. This involved being swathed in towels and ignominiously anointed with water. It meant having his face and ears washed, which he particularly detested, but for the sake of Katy's gentle crooning and cuddling, he put up with these atrocities. 

Eight-year-old Jane had thought up a torture of a different kind. He suffered being dressed in a matinee jacket, long nightdress, and booties with a satin-ribboned bonnet flattening his ginger ears. He endured being ridden up and down the road in the basket on the front of her bicycle. At the first sign of Jane's attention slackening, he would leap out onto the pavement, fly through gardens, and across fields to a secret place were he would rid himself of the hated garments. This went on until Jane ran out of baby clothes.

Thomas, who was two years her senior, had a habit of putting Fluffy on the top of doors. Just why, Fluffy had no idea. One minute he would be happily curled up asleep, and the next, he was being lifted aloft by Thomas and deposited on the top edge of an open door, scratching and clawing to gain balance. Once there, he could remain lying along the edge with complete terror in his eyes, until rescued by an adult Robinson. 

Fluffy ate well with the Robinson's. They were always saying he was the only cat in Britain to have sampled every kind of food there was. This was because Grandma Robinson, who was very fussy, often refused her food and anything she did not want went into Fluffy's bowl. The Robinson children often slipped him portions of meat that they did not want, under the dining table. Fluffy was game to try anything from trifle to spaghetti bolognese. 

Fluffy loved boxes. They were his all-consuming passion. He would climb into any box, trying it out for size. He would investigate the depths of paper bags, plastic carriers, hand-bags, suitcases, you name it, he would get into it. 

When the crates arrived, he was delighted and curious. But when he made a few tentative forays, there were immediate shrieks of, "Mind the china!" "Get off the best linen!" and eventually, "Will somebody put Fluffy out, _please?_"

So Fluffy sat in the garden, and watched. There were no blanket baths or rides on bicycles these days. Everyone was so busy. He did not quite understand what was going on. 

One morning, the Robinson family assembled outside with bags and parcels and he was being passed around for hugs and wet kisses. It was all very messy, and he did not quite understand what was going on. He hoped it did not mean that he was going down the road. Some of his elderly feline friends had told him that hugs and kisses meant going down the road, and not coming back.

So Fluffy was quite relieved when it was evident that the Robinsons did not intend to put him in the car with the rest of the family, and their mountain of luggage. He rubbed his head against Katy's new sky-blue socks, to show that he forgave her all the medical ministrations. 

"We don't really want to leave him behind, but what else can we do?" sighed Mrs. Robinson. "One is always hearing about cats that walk back to their old homes, and poor Fluffy would drown in the ocean! We're so grateful for your kind offer."

"Shall I have a new kitten in Australia?" asked the fickle Jane.

"Of course darling,"

"Don't worry Mrs. Robinson, I'll look after Fluffy for you," said a new, sweet young voice. "He'll be perfectly alright with us, and he'll have Trixibelle to play with of course. I'm sure he'll soon get used to us, and we'll take great care of him."

Katy wept over Fluffy's ears. "Goodbye, darling Fluffy," she whispered. "I'll never forget you, never, never, never…"

It was all very disturbing for poor Fluffy. And then, suddenly, the Robinsons drove off, leaving Fluffy and the sweet voiced young woman on the front lawn. He looked at her, wondering what to expect next. She was young, and quite tall, with silvery-blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She regarded him a little uncertainly, her fair hair brushing her cheek, like a breeze stirring a cobweb in the moonlight. 

"Come along," she said, trying to sound brisk. "You live next door now." Gillian picked him up carefully, and gave him a cautious pat, ruffling his orange fur the wrong way. She's not used to cats, thought Fluffy, worriedly, as he was carried across to the house next door. 

The house that Gillian took him to was joined on to the Robinson house, and was exactly the same, only the other way around. He discovered that Gillian and Alan were newly weds, that they lived in silent rooms, and went out all day. It was all very odd. Sometimes Fluffy thought he had gone deaf. 

It was an odd house. There was nothing to jump on, knock over, hide behind, sit on, scratch at, trample on, or investigate. Most of the time, Fluffy sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, polite and distant, grooming himself, and slightly nauseated by the pervading smell of paint. He missed the Robinsons, and all the noise and activity. He missed being talked to, and being included as part of the family. He missed having Katy tell him her fears and worries, and the way she kissed the top of his head. 

Trixibelle was a kitten. She was a fawn coloured, seal-point Burmese ball of fur, and Fluffy despised her. He learnt that she had been bought only a week earlier by Gillian, when she first agreed to take care of Fluffy, so he would have a friend. A fiend is more like it, thought Fluffy to himself, crossly. 

"We really ought to change that awful name," remarked Alan. "So childish," he mused.

"But to what though, darling?" asked Gillian, slightly exasperated. "You hated the name Trixibelle too…"

"Well at least that suited the idiotic fluffball. That cat is a menace, look at his wild eyes. Call him something simple, I don't know…George, Henry-"

"_Alright_, we'll call him Henry," said Gillian, to make the peace.

So Fluffy became Henry.

His life was boring. When Henry first explored upstairs, he wandered into the Marshall's bedroom, and made a flying leap onto the rose-patterned duvet. It sank most satisfyingly, but before he had even lain down, Gillian whisked him off again. 

"Sorry," she said shortly. "Not on the bed."

He was not allowed on the two armchairs either, or on the draining board, or in Gillian's shopping bag, or under the TV set, or even on top of it. So he took to staying in the kitchen, pretending to be asleep. 

The garden was immaculate, so unlike the wild unkempt jungle that the Robinson's had. Everything was planted in measured rows. Henry learnt to tread carefully. Alan Marshall was very particular about his garden. 

Henry lost weight, not because the Marshalls were unkind to him, or starved him, or even fed him less, but because Henry was pinning for the way things used to be. If it is possible for a cat to be depressed, then that was what Henry was. Henry's heart would fail when, yet again, he saw Gillian reach for the tin-opener. He longed for a piece of fruitcake, or a saucer of warm cocoa. 

He made one visit to his old house, but never returned again. A huge German Shepherd dog lived in the back garden. Henry was lucky to escape with his life. Henry shuddered, and kept to his side of the fence. 

Sometimes, he sat on the pavement outside, and watched the world go by. One young woman with red hair always stopped and stroked him, knowing the special place under his chin where his purr started. 

Sometimes he followed children along the road, but was afraid to go too far. He was less trusting that he used to be. Especially after the time with the field mouse. He had only meant it as a present for Gillian. It was so tiny, and was paralysed with terror. Yet Gillian had shrieked so loudly, and whacked the side of his head, so Henry opened his mouth in surprise, and the mouse dropped out. The situation improved somewhat when Gillian stopped going out all day, and started to sing around the house, which was rather nice. However, although she now sat around quite a lot, he was never permitted to sit on her lap. 

One day, a new smell appeared in the house. Henry recognised it immediately. It was the sweet, thin smell of milk. Something stirred and breathed in the pram in the hall-way, and made mewing sounds. Henry pricked up his ears. Surely it was not another cat? He stood up on his back legs to peer in, but a mound of blankets obscured whatever lay beneath. Henry heard Trixibelle come up behind him, and he sensed her confusion too. 

"Say hello to Timmy," said Gillian. She picked up the cats one by one, and let them peer in at the tiny pink baby in the pram.

Now the improvement in Henry's life accelerated. 

"What on earth shall I do with all this cereal?" wailed Gillian one breakfast-time. "Timmy won't touch it!"

"Give it to the cats," said Alan dismissively.

Baby cereal! One of Henry's favorites. His rough little tongue could hardly lap it up for purring. Then at teatime, marmite soldiers were dropped by the baby, onto the floor, in various states of disintegration.

"Oh, you are such a messy baby," said Gillian exasperatedly. She hurried over to clear it up, but Henry got there first. It seemed like years since he'd had a marmite soldier. 

Timmy soon began to crawl, and there wasn't a thing that Gillian could do about life at floor level. It became a glorious landscape of wooden bricks, round-eyed yellow ducks, chewed crusts, lost shoes, sticky spoons, and a fat brown teddy bear. Henry sat amid the chaos, keeping an eye on the baby, and keeping his claws sheathed. He still kept out of the way - even now, he was still like a visitor. 

One afternoon, Gillian was sewing up a hole in Timmy's dungarees, while her baby sat on the floor, playing with some empty cotton reels. Henry was sunning himself by the window, when from the corner of his eye, he saw the baby reaching up towards the flex of a reading lamp.

Something stirred deeply in Henry's memory, he remembered when Katy Robinson had done the same thing, and had brought the whole lamp crashing down on her head. In a split second, Henry leapt off the windowsill, and sent the baby flying back onto his bottom on the carpet. The baby howled in surprise, and pain, for Henry then realised that for the first time he had forgotten to retract his claws. There was a crimson line under Timmy's left eye, which was starting to weep with blood. 

Immediately, Gillian was down on her knees, sweeping her baby up in her arms, and placing him gently on the sofa. Then she started screaming at Henry.

"You, wicked, wicked cat! I regret the day we ever agreed to keep you, you deserve to die! You could have scratched his eye!" Gillian grabbed a trainer from the floor, and brought it down with all her might on Henry's head. She was so angry, she used all of her force, and Henry was immediately knocked back. He slumped onto the carpet, unconscious. 

"Oh no," Gillian gasped. "No, no, no, don't let it be, I've killed him, oh dear God…"

Luckily, she had not killed him, and Henry woozily came round that night. But the next morning, he was shoved unceremoniously into shoved into the basket normally used for carrying him to the vet in. Henry's heart was beating wildly. They're taking me to be put down, he thought, I'm going to die. If cats could cry, then Henry would have done. But slowly, he realised that Gillian was driving in the opposite direction to the vets.

Gillian was thinking quickly. She was going to take him to an animal rescue charity. But they would ask her questions, discover all Henry's records under the name Robinson. They might even contact them, and tell the family what she had done. Besides, it would be so mortifying to have to dump him on them. 

Gillian drove up to the local branch of the RSPCA (Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals), and quietly took Henry, in his basket, out of the back-seat. She walked softly up to the front door, and placed the basket down. Henry's unblinking amber eyes looked up at her.

Gillian jogged back to the car, and sped off. 

Two hours later, an RSPCA helper found Henry on the doorstep. 

End of Part 1


	2. The Life of Crookshanks - Part 2

The Life of Crookshanks - Part 2

As soon as she came into the compound, Henry realised that she was not among the ordinary run of visitors. There were no children tugging this way and that at her hand. She was not making various cooing noises. She did not flutter ecstatically at the first large cage of adorably fluffy kittens…

Purposefully, the young woman approached the row of cages housing adult cats; her air of calm efficiency only slightly impaired by the tension in her slim neck. She was pretty in a flower-like way, but with strength in her delicate features, a contradiction that gave her face character. She looked along the line of cages. Henry sat still, waiting, hoping. He had been stuck in the tiny cramped cage for almost a month now, and he had heard from the other cats what happened when you had been in the cattery a month. 

"Oh heavens," the young woman muttered, somewhat distraught. 

There were dozens of cats. Fat ones, thin ones, old ones, young ones, a pair of cats that both had an eye missing. Green, blue and amber gazes swiveled away from her. They ignored visitors. She was merely part of the daily procession. 

But somehow Henry knew that she was different. He sensed her hidden distress, as she slowly progressed towards him. She stopped, and looked into his cage, a sudden gleam of hope coming into her clear hazel eyes. 

"Now you might do," she said. She turned to the kennel helper, who had been following her. "Can you tell me anything about this one?"

The kennel helper, who was a sturdy youth of about twenty, had all the facts. "For a start," he said, "we get very few pedigrees. Most Persian owners take good care of their pets, after all they are very valuable. But the circumstances here are very sad. This cat was left on the doorstep of an RSPCA centre a few miles away; no-one knows who left it. That branch of the RSPCA was full at that time, so we took the Persian on."

"How terrible. Have you tried to trace the owner?"

"Of course, but the cat was plainly dumped and unwanted. There is very little chance of anyone trying to claim it now."

Fiona was inspecting the cat closely. It had a cream coloured body, and the long sweeping fur was deep marmalade. There were flecks of brown and white in the coat. There was a good width between its eyes, she decided, and the ears were pricked. It gazed at her fathomlessly with its brilliant copper eyes. 

"The face is a little dark," she murmured. 

"Its time is nearly up. A month is all we keep 'em, then…"

It was blatant sales talk, thought Fiona. 

"OK, I think she'll do."

"Actually, he's a neutered male."

"Oh heavens!" the young woman was torn, but something in Henry's expression made up her mind. He looked intelligent, and she desperately needed intelligent help. 

"Do I have to sign something?"

"Come to the office," said the kennel helper, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his overall. "You've got a good 'un there."

Henry was put in a cardboard cat box, and Fiona took him out to her car. Once inside, with the windows closed, she opened the lid. He stepped out cautiously. 

"I bet you don't like being in that box," said Fiona. "Would you keep still while I drive us home?"

Henry listened. He'd been in a car before, couldn't she tell? He sat down on the front seat, and began to groom himself meticulously. He did not turn a hair when she switched on the engine, and drove slowly out of the compound. 

"I hate to tell you that your name is Princess Mila," said Fiona with some trepidation. "I know it sounds a stupid name, but it's only a collection of syllables after all." 

Henry turned his burning amber gaze on her. He agreed, it was a stupid name, but anything was better than being stuck in the cattery.

"If it's alright with you," Fiona continued, "I think we'll call you Prinny. Perhaps you'll get used to it. But I wish I knew your real name. If only you could tell me. We live in a house near Kensington Gardens. At least, it's not my house. I work there as a sort of housekeeper-come-secretary. It's my responsibility to see that everything runs smoothly. The main advantage of the job is that I have my own flat at the top of the house, and these days, that's like gold dust. I couldn't afford to live anywhere else in London, at today's prices…"

Prinny listened to her babbling on, and gave a low miaow to show his understanding. He was enjoying the ride, and his driver's gentle voice. He noticed that the delicate spring leaves were bursting out on the trees again, and the little clouds were chasing each other across the sky. He liked seeing the children skipping along the pavements, the other cars flashing by with powerful roars, the lumbering red buses towering overhead, while he sat safe and contained in this funny little square car. He trusted Fiona implicitly. There were some people that could be trusted straight away. Yet she had not touched him once yet. It was all in her voice. 

"Poor puss," she was now saying. "What a long time to be shut away. It must have been horrid. I suppose you have almost forgotten your old owners by now."

Prinny felt compelled to tell her that he had not forgotten his old owners, nor ever would. But Fiona did not know him well enough to understand or recognise his different vocal sounds.

********************************************************************************************************************** 

Prinny looked curiously at his new home when they arrived. It was an elegant Georgian house, set in a suburban part of London. He padded over the priceless cashmere carpet in the polished hallway, and sniffed at the bright burst of yellow daffodils arranged in a crystal vase on the Sheraton table. He felt sure the young woman had put them there. 

Is this it? he yeowelled.

"This is it," said Fiona. "And believe it or not, you have a sitting room of your very own. Now how many pussycats can boast of that? See what you think of it."

Fiona opened a door to one of the ground floor rooms. It was furnished like a normal sitting room, but there were a few feline refinements. There was a cushion-lined cat bed on four short gilt legs. A grooming table. A china bowl of water standing on a king-sized mat. A cat litter tray was hidden discreetly behind a Japanese silk-painted screen. The room was centrally heated and the double-glazed doors led out onto a small, but richly green lawn. On the wall hung a cabinet containing a collection of satin rosettes and several silver cups. 

Wow, thought Prinny, impressed.

He also knew a lot about the other cat that had once lived there. She scratched and sharpened her claws on the legs of the grooming table. She adored minced chicken and warm milk. She was lazy, and sat about a lot, especially on the chair with the pink satin cushions. 

"I want you to stay indoors for a few days," said Fiona. "I'm sorry about that, but if you were to run away or get lost…" her voice tailed off. 

Prinny shrugged his compliance. Whatever. He would have agreed to anything at the moment. Anyway, there was plenty to look at around the house. 

"You can roam all over until she comes back. Would you like to see the kitchen and my office? Then I'll get you some milk. Come along, Prinny."

Prinny followed her neat ankles along a mirror-lined corridor to the back kitchen. He did a complicated little side step as he crossed over the threshold - a sort of celebration dance. It was a very modern room, not at all like the kitchen at the Robinson's or the Marshalls, but nevertheless it had a more lived-in atmosphere than the rest of the house. In the room leading off the kitchen, there was a desk and computer. The room smelt of flowers, and of Fiona, thought Prinny. 

"This is my office. You can come and see me anytime." 

He leapt up onto the desk, and walked all over her papers, which rustled delightfully. He smelled the mysterious box and keyboard that was the computer. His ears pricked as he heard a blackbird somewhere in the garden singing loudly and clear, a tantalising sound. He turned and gazed longingly at Fiona. Can I, please? he asked.

She shook her head. "Sorry Prinny. No birds allowed. It's a rule. Come and have some milk while I make myself a cup of tea."

**********************************************************************************************************************

That night Prinny did not sleep in the cushioned bed. He chewed a corner thoughtfully, then decided to curl up under the radiator. He also ignored the lightly roasted chicken dinner, preferring to share Fiona's scrambled eggs and bacon in the kitchen. 

The next morning, he was exploring the rooms on the first floor when he heard a car draw up outside the house. He peered down from the windowsill and saw a large purple-ribboned hat being helped out of the car and then coming up the front steps. The ribbons wobbled as the hat laboured up the steps. 

Fiona rushed into the room, her hair flying out behind her, picked Prinny up, and hurried downstairs to Prinny's sitting room. 

"Now, you've got to be very, very good," she whispered urgently. "Mrs. Armitage is back."

Then Fiona did a very peculiar thing. She patted his face with some fine white powder that made him sneeze. 

"Please don't fuss," she said, shielding his eyes with her other hand. "It's only talcum powder. Your face is a little too dark." She placed him on the satin cushions. "Sit," she hissed. He was so surprised, that he did.

Under the large, purple-ribboned hat was a large purple-ribboned woman, and suddenly Prinny found himself being clasped and squeezed against ample folds of Mrs. Armitage. He was too astonished to resist.

"Princess, my darling Princess. Mummy's back! Has my darling Princess missed her mummy while she's been away in America?"

Prinny yeowelled politely. What a strange woman!

"Beautiful little girl, Mummy's beautiful darling," she cooed. "I've got a lovely present for my sweetie baby." She turned excitedly to Fiona. "Bring in my small leather travel bag, will you Fiona? I want to give Mila her present. I hardly knew what to choose. They have such marvellous things in America. Dear little jackets, and wellington boots for her paws. I could have bought and bought."

Prinny lowered his ears. He hoped he wasn't going to get any damned fool wellington boots. 

Mavis Armitage took out a long leather box out of her travel bag and opened it. Lying on velvet was a soft suede collar, intricately shell-edged, and inlaid with red stones. It was finished with a butterfly shaped buckle, which Mrs. Armitage was fastening lovingly around Prinny's neck. 

"There, doesn't she look absolutely gorgeous. It highlights her eyes. She must wear it to the cat show next month." Mrs. Armitage took her spectacles out of her handbag, and put them on her matte-powdered nose. She peered at Prinny.

"Have you been keeping to princess Mila's high protein diet sheet?" she asked, frowning. "She looks a different shape. Thinner…"

"She's been pining for you," said Fiona, quickly. 

"Ah, yes, of course, that would explain it. Now my baby must have a nice rest so that she will look beautiful for the cat show." Prinny sat back on the cushion in shock. But he would have plenty to say later. 

When Mrs. Armitage disappeared upstairs, Prinny made his way to Fiona's office and put his paw on her lap. He tilted his head so that Fiona could see the collar.

"Do you want me to take it off for you? I thought you wouldn't like it. No you can't have it to play with. Or bury. It's probably very valuable. Nor can you sit on my lap silly! How would I type? And I've got masses to do. Look at all this work she's given me…"

But Prinny insisted. 

**********************************************************************************************************************

Mrs. Armitage was not exactly suspicious, but certain things puzzled her. Princess Mila had always been content to sit on her chair and doze, but now she seemed to have developed a rampant vitality and curiosity, streaking up and down stars so fast that no one really knew where she was. She refused to eat any of her special foods, preferring a helping of whatever Fiona was eating. 

Princess Mila had never played before, but now she boxed tassels on the curtains, skidded across the polished floor, trampled on the piano keys, and chased everything chaseable, including her own shadow. 

"Please put Princess in her room, where she belongs," said Mrs. Armitage pointedly on day to Fiona. But Prinny had a will of iron. He was determined now that he would not go into that room at any cost. He dared Fiona to put him there. 

"I said put Princess in her room," called Mrs. Armitage from the hall. "And I mean now, Fiona."

Prinny's tail began to whisk. A low growl rumbled in his throat, his ears pricked forward as if stalking, the prey in this case being large, bossy, and purple-ribboned. 

"Oh dear," said Fiona, trying to obey. 

It was blue murder. It was all hell let loose. Prinny exploded into the most deafening protest of outrage that Fiona had ever heard. She stood outside the room with her hands over her ears. She would never have believed that one cat could make such a deafening noise. 

"I'm going out to Harrods," said Mrs. Armitage, sweeping through the hall with her mink coat over one arm, her face creased with annoyance. "I trust Princess will have calmed down by the time I return."

End of Part 2. 


	3. The Life of Crookshanks - Part 3

The Life of Crookshanks

But Prinny had no intention of calming down. The up-roar reached a shattering crescendo…

"What on earth is all this racket?"

A man strode into the room - he was tall, solid, dark-browed and unflappable. He scooped Prinny up out of the wreckage of the cushioned bed, which he had been violently demolishing. The man held Prinny out at arm's length and gave him a slight shake. 

"Stop this fuss at once," he said firmly, in the kind of voice he used for raw recruits on deck. 

A fine cloud of talcum powder settled on the lapels of his navel coat. Lieutenant Nicholas Armitage looked Prinny straight in the eyes - deep sea blue met brilliant copper-gold, and locked instantly. 

"This isn't Princess Mila," said Nicholas to Fiona. "This Persian has a wider muzzle, and look at those bright, mischievous eyes. It's younger, slimmer, healthier…and male."

Fiona smiled apprehensively. She put a hand of Prinny's fluffy marmalade fur to still the pounding of his heart. He immediately quietened, changing down gear to a lower tone. He was on her side, but he did not know what he could do to help. 

"It's a long story…"

"I have five days leave."

"Well, you see, while your aunt was abroad, I somehow lost Princess Mila," Fiona confessed. She moistened her lips as she remembered the desperate days that had followed. "I don't know what happened. I suppose she got out somehow…I can't believe she was stolen. Anyway, I reported it to the police, and I went to every home for strays in London, but no Mila. If she had been run over, I'm sure someone would have found her and reported it. So I think she must have found herself a new home. But how could I tell your aunt, when she had entrusted Mila to my care? She would have fired me instantly."

"She would," Nicholas agreed, although his marine colored eyes flashed dangerously.

"Then, as it got nearer and nearer to the date of your aunt's return, I was nearly at my wits end. I decided I would have to find a replacement…a look-alike adult Persian to take Mila's place. And I found Prinny. The coat color was so similar, his markings, his expression…"

"But not the character," said Nicholas, stroking the now docile cat. Prinny looked anxiously up at Fiona.

"Did I do something terribly wrong?" asked Fiona, still stroking the soft fur. "They told me at the refuge that they would not have kept Prinny much longer. A month is the maximum, they would have put him down…" Tears welled up in Fiona's eyes. "What are you going to do?" she asked Nicholas. But he pretended not to hear, and strode out of the room. 

Of course, Nicholas told his aunt when she came back from Harrods. Fiona heard raised voices in the hall, and put her head in her hands. Mrs. Armitage immediately fired poor Fiona. She was ordered to leave that day. The next morning, Mrs. Armitage ordered her nephew Nicholas to dispose of Prinny.

Prinny gazed up, as she saw Nicholas stride into the kitchen. He bent down, and swept Prinny into his arms, holding him painfully tightly around his stomach. 

"Come on," he said, without a trace of emotion, and opened the front door. He carried Prinny down to the end of the road, and dumped him on the ground. 

"Don't come back, if you know what's good for you," he advised Prinny. 

***********************************************************************************************************************

Prinny had been wandering the streets of London for several weeks. He had, unwittingly walked away from the rich area of Kensington Gardens, into downtown Soho. Living on scraps from bins, and sleeping in boxes, he had grown thin. He had many fights with other cats, trying to gain authority, or having a scrap over some food both cats thought they found first. The worst incident was with a huge grey alley cat, who fought him over some mouldy salmon that a restaurant had thrown away. Prinny, although large looking because of his expanse of ginger fur, was quite small underneath, and no match for the grey cat. He put up a good fight, but inevitably lost. The alley cat managed to scratch right through his ear, leaving a permanent slit down it. His fur grew matted, and he lost trust of humans all together. 

Prinny was dying. He was starving, and tired, and had given up on survival. He had walked for so long, and in no particular direction that he had no idea where he was. He woke that morning, and wandered down the lonely street, passing mouth-watering smells wafting from fish and chip shops, humans bustling past. He knew he looked a sight, but he had given up caring. His once flawless red coat was tarnished, it has turned lack-luster yellow-beige through his bad diet, and was streaked with oil and dirt. His copper eyes had lost their sparkle, and gazed around blankly. The corners of his eyes were crusty through illness. Prinny wanted to die. He didn't want to live like this anymore, and all his energy had gone. Life was not worth living.

He paused outside a burger-bar, and curled up in the rubbish lining the London street. I'll just go to sleep here, he thought, and not wake up again. Prinny closed his eyes.

***********************************************************************************************************************

Jonathon Croghan was on his way to work. He worked for the Ministry of Magic, as one of the Muggle Advisory Ministers. His job was to research the lives of Muggles, and this involved stepping out the wizarding world, and travelling around London, keeping a close watch on things. He was just heading back to Diagon Alley - he was staying at the Leaky Cauldron temporarily, so that he could research Muggle lives in that area, to grab a spot of lunch, before setting off again. 

He was walking down the road towards the Leaky Cauldron, when the rubbish on the road caught his eye, and he looked down. The whole pavement was spotted with litter, and he shook his head to himself. These Muggles, honestly, he thought - and took a double take. The small piece of furry orange material by the door of the burger bar, was actually breathing. He inched closer. Poor thing, thought Jonathon. Looking both ways, he bent down to stroke the cat. He noticed its breathing was very shallow. 

"Come on," he said, and scooped the cat up in his arms. He tucked the cat inside his jacket, and set off back to the pub.

Once he was in his room, he laid the cat out on his bed. What am I going to do with you? he asked himself. Jonathon took a saucer, and filled it with milk from the fridge. He put it on the floor, and placed a dish of cold sausages by it. Just in case, he thought. Out loud, he added, "I'll see you tonight, when I'm back from work."

Jonathon quietly shut the door behind him, and went downstairs to buy himself some lunch. Meanwhile, on his own, Prinny was coming round. The warmth in the room heated his stone-cold body, and eventually, Prinny woke up, and felt like he had been asleep for days. 

This has to be a dream, he thought, with one eye open. The small, warm room, the fire in the grate…the smell of food?

Unsteadily, he slid off the bed, and smelt his way around the room, to where the sausages and milk were. Ravenous, he scoffed them down, and lapped the milk up messily, spilling droplets onto the floor, and splashing his whiskers and eyelashes with milk. Exhausted, but happy, he curled into a ball on the soft cut carpet, and fell asleep once more.

Jonathon arrived back at five. 

"Come on puss, before they shut," he said cryptically, and picked Prinny up once more. He carried him out of the Leaky Cauldron, and across into Diagon Alley. Alert now, Prinny was watching with amazement, as he saw people in hats and cloaks crossing the street, little shops full of strange things, people carrying _broomsticks, _a man with a stall changing a kettle into a golden book and back again, and small crowd gathering around him. Prinny could not believe his eyes. I must be dreaming, he thought incredulously. 

He looked up, and he saw he was being carried into a shop called Magical Menagerie. As they entered the shop, Prinny flattened his ears against his head. The noise was a cacophony of birds squawking, mice and rats squeaking, red and yellow Macaw parrots jabbering and snakes and un-identifiable green reptiles hissing.

Jonathon plonked Prinny down on the counter. Prinny gazed sideways, his mouth watering, at the black and beige rats in a glass case on the table next to him. He heard Jonathon speak to the woman behind the counter, and soon he was being lifted into one of the cages above the counter. He saw Jonathon give him a small wave good-bye, almost as though he was embarrassed. 

The woman turned to him. "What shall we call you?" she said. "We'll have to get you cleaned up of course, scare the customers away with that greasy, matted fur…" she paused, and stood deep in thought. "Something rough…you look like a little villain, a crook…Crookshanks! Perfect!"

So Prinny became Crookshanks, and it was the first name he had been given that he liked. Crookshanks stayed in the Magical Menagerie for months. He learnt from other cats about the wizarding world, and ceased to be amazed at seeing things such as the rabbit turning itself into a top hat. His cat friends eventually were sold. He saw many animals disappearing from the shop, and he longed to have a home too. The witch was kindly, but did not have enough time to give him the attention he longed for.

One day, he saw three school-age children enter the shop. He took in one of them especially well, a medium sized girl with bushy brown hair, and large front teeth, and he knew she was the one for him. Having attacked one of the other children's pet rat, he saw the girl linger, and looked into her hazel eyes, pleadingly. He heard the hallowed words: "I'll take him, please," and knew life would never be the same again…

The End. 


End file.
